There's a message on a board saying the queen will fall one day. And the men are running wild. A castle won't hold them all. A castle with no queen and no crown. The men will cry. The men will die. Perdition manifestos will replace their bibles. Death will tattoo their necks. And the fear is such that the men grab the troves and the treaties and run away. The North is lost. The compass went mad. Let's ditch our lands and live on the shores of Terameer.

A constant flow of thoughts expressed by other people can stop and deaden your own thought and your own initiative…. That is why constant learning softens your brain…. Stopping the creation of your own thoughts to give room for the thoughts from other books reminds me of Shakespeare’s remark about his contemporaries who sold their land in order to see other countries.

Arthur Schopenhauer, January 9

Movement lost them in the first place. Motion destroyed their hearts and ate their core. And all they had left were their wandering feet. Lost in the sand. Most gave up their minds to the vile winds of the valleys. But for those who waited, their walk led them to Sougeysez. The land with no kingdoms and no kings. Where people share their food, where property and reign have no language equivalents. Mine and yours are one and the same. And the Sougeysi dialect makes it clear. Sougeysez's medicine man sees them from afar. And as his father and grand-father did, he spreads his arms and says "Let them in".

Let them in. In order for it to work, the door must remain unlocked. People might enter without knocking, they might crash your party and drink your wine. Let them in, and let them drink – because you might meet somebody interesting.

Amanda Palmer

The youngest men in the tribe sat around the wanderers. 9 were left. The Sougeysi give power to the youth. They are the ones who lead the hunts and pierce the game. They are the ones who dance first during ceremonies. And because they've never been to a ceremony before, the opening dance is always different. The Sougeysi tradition is one of constant change. The 9 men show them their broken compasses, their maps and their treaties. They explain with signs and drawings. And the youngsters laugh and smile.

Scientists can be too rational. They're like a rich man drowned by ambition and to whom you need to smile and remind he might not be on the right track.

Kauffa, The only travelling Sougeysi

Kauffa takes his pen and grabs one of the men's maps. He writes a poem in the margin. He draws a deer and a wild boar. He describes the 9 men in Sougeysi. The men look at one another. These maps are their only guides to Terameer. Should they stop Kauffa ? Should they take the maps and the treaties and run ? But the eldest wanderer isn't looking at them. He is looking at Kauffa. He is reminded of a time where he used to populate the margins of his own booklets with nonsense and off-topic thoughts.

Marginalia

The name the elder used to give to those fragments of thought and seeds of insight he scribbled in the margins of a book

The men who sold their land look at each other. They've lost their lord and their North. They've lost their compass and their core. They landed in a village where everything belongs to everyone. Where doors open to strangers.

The queen's men sold their lands but got paid in souls. They breathe a new air and their empty lungs take it in. While aiming for Terameer, they forgot the margins of their journey. And slowly their mind, drowned by the smoke of the Sougeysi hookahs, leapt into a world where margins are the journey. Where logic takes a stroll in the fields of idleness and absurdity. And they smiled, and they stopped and they breathed.

I am the ambassador of strange. I represent. My moves and my jumps, my hands drawing circles and squares, my chest bumping in refusal and anger. When I land from my short stint flight, I come back as a dark archangel, lay my feet ona ground that is now to be transformed. I am the living glacier. The dark build. The element of how. The master of uncertainty. The new in now. If you are searching for shelter, if your end goal is to hide, then you've come to the wrong place. Here we reign. We. I am the ambassador of strange. Every freak, every weirdo, every nutcase, every madman, every psycho, every lunatic, every wacky, troubled maniac, every deranged, mentally challenged, introverted, hard to grasp dancing monster out there. Each and every one them. All pay me their prayers for me to dance tonight. Brothers, this is an ode to our folly. This dance is a song for our difference. Rise with le. Lift your feet off the ground and just like me, take a stand against the common, the frequent, the same. We're a species apart. Let's start acting like one.

The whore moves strangely to be honest. She looks at you as if she didn't care. The night is a country. It has no citizens. Only shady visitors who end there with no visa but their madness and fatigue. Their pass is their insomnia.

Insomnia is the visitor's visa into the nightIt clears you and takes your bribe when you writeYou need to slip some ink dollars into the night's brawAnger won't get you anywhereRhymes are a pain

And you do get lost. You need that beauty you once saw, that immaculate line of words, these perfect nuanced sentences. You need the elegance of it all, without the long thought process. You want it to flow. To fall and rise, to lift your soul. What a feeling. Your own words lifting your soul. I can write and forget and cry and walk and make mistakes and feel bad and run and fall and hit a fence while on a bike and shout and ask for help and be tired and paint and draw and sing. I can sing. I can cry.

What a waste. What a w a s t e. Your tears are a rain I can do without. Your tears are the umbrella of my joy. For when you cry, I know you are. Here. Fully. Joy in tears. Tears in joy.

I can do without your tears though. But I cannot do without the night. I cannot find myself if I don't travel there from time to time. I cannot find the path if I don't lose my usual identity in that amazing realm.

The night is a country. I am a one day visitor. My visa expire soon. I should be going. But I'm too scared to start walking. I feel lonely.

No power whatsoeverEmotions are plainRhymes are a pain

Travel alone. Get lost for a decade. Even if the word serves your dreams. If you don' thave the answer you want and the questions you need, you'll stay lost for a decade.

Can you save my soul ?

Can you share my steps ?

Can you be with me once more ? The way we were. I need nobody though. My hate for you makes me go foreward. Fore-word. But who are you ? Are you another person or are you me ? That grit I have, are these mu teeth grinning against you, dreaming of biting and chewing your mind and brain or are they trying to chew me ? When I grit at night, am I trying to eat myself ? My strange teeth ? Are trying to eat me ? Am I trying to eat me ? I shouldn't let go during the night.

It's been sometime since the start of this war. Hardships and down times occured but survival has been the dominant component throughout and this should not be forgotten and its importance should not be lessened.

It's been hard. However, it will keep getting harder. Hence hardship is not the solid constant of this war, it is rather the variable, the moving unfinished deal to pursue.

It feels like a decade ago. You've lost grasp over things and all you can do is watch these fingers of yours and wonder if they're long enough. Your lover never told you anything about them. Are they ugly? Are you fat? Do you like yourself? Can you settle for what you have? Do you need more? Do you suffer from chronic insatisfaction? Are you less intelligent than your peers? Should you feel despair?

I don't know. You don't know. And we both swim in that ocean of question marks. Our shirts get stuck in the hooks of these things. They slow us down. But then again, we decide to take our shirts off. We are bare-chested. And we don't care. We keep swimming. But why?

I don't know. I guess you don't know either. Do you want to guess? You've got a billion question mark beside you. Black, big punctuation floating in a sea you didn't/haven't/tried but failed to/ won't ever understand. I don't understand. What should you do? Should you guess? Should you ask yourself a question? What if you do?

I tell you what will happen: you will drown. If you start picking these marks, they will weigh enough to drown you. You will die. Stop.

I am the Negro black ghost with black chains and a black tie on the top of that white mountain you see thereMy bent head and my crooked nose, my big lips and my deep voice on the top of that mountain you knowThe humming sound you hear when you come by is the prayor I send to the flies who suck my blood and spare my soulI am the lord of the mountain you admireI am the guardian black ghostly god of that rock you fearI am the manifestation, the impersonation, the flesh of the greatness of ghostsI am the idea made manI am the Christ of this landRun before I do

I walked up a stiff alley this afternoonI had my bag hanging on the shoulderVicky was waiting at the topI love her lipsAnd when she smiles, a sun rises up on my lifeI've been thinking of a lot about dark things latelyBut her smile waiting for me three steps away wiped it all outVickyI'm afraid of the power of wordsOnce said, they cannot be retrievedOnce written, they can't be erasedAnd start weighing on everyhthing they concernIf used too often, some words can become dullThey can kill a feelingThey burden it with their vacuity and their soulless natureThat's why I don't say it too oftenThat's why you always feel like if we've known each other for some daysIf I say it each time I see you, and God knows it would be meant,If I say it each time I touch those lips of yoursThe weary impression that this feeling is an asset, that our relationship is a concluded contract,The queasy sensation that you're mineWill diffuse in the space we shareAnd you're not mineUs is not a contractI'm just the lucky guy that you choseI'm the dreamer that hugs you closeI'm the sleepy hobo that lies near, in the shade of your heart

Montgomery decided to die yesterdayHe bought some gas, a box of matchsticks, a gallon of water and a fridgeHe wants to ice some water and drink itThat way he'll hurt his voice so badly that nobody will hear him scream and try to save him while he burns to deathMontgomery, thank god you took the right decision yesterdayDying is the right thing for youIt suits you perfectlyIt's got the color of your eyes and the dumbness of your personaeIt's black and voidIt's really youDie you moron